His hotel was within a biscuit's-toss of the terminus. It stood by the roadside, and its front consisted of a built-out structure of glass, within which a couple of Breton girls with tight hair, string-soled shoes, and the physique of middle-weight boxers, were laying a dozen small tables for déjeuner. A lad dressed precisely as Derry had been dressed was delivering lifebuoys of bread, and knives clattered in baskets, and two-foot-high stacks of coloured plates were being carried in.
"M'sieu' Arnaud?" I inquired of one of the string-slippered Amazons.
"M'sieu' n'est pas déscendu—si vour voulez monter au deuxième, M'sieu'."
She indicated a way through the back salon that had once been the street frontage. Beyond yawned a cavernous kitchen, the blacker because of its opening on to a dazzlingly green back yard. Between the two rose a staircase, which a strapping youth was polishing with a mop on his foot. I mounted and gained the deuxième. Then, outside the closed door, I stopped with a thumping heart.
But it was no good hesitating. I pulled myself together and knocked.
"——trez!" called a clear voice.
I thanked God, pushed and entered.
His head was bent over his colour-box. On a piece of paper he appeared to be making a list of the colours to be replenished. He looked smilingly up, and our eyes met.
Clear eyes, grave sweet mouth, undoubting smile——
And unchanged. The night had passed, and nothing perceptible had happened. I crossed to the window. Now that all was well, I dare to admit to myself that I had been prepared to find him—dead. If he was right in fixing his climacteric at sixteen he might well have been dead.